by Nunn, Judy
She heaved herself up from her chair. ‘I did make some lovely lemonade last night though, with the sugar that come yesterday and some of those nice fat lemons that was with the fruit Miss Amy brought –’
‘No thank you, Mrs Jordan.’ Silas hastily rose. ‘I can’t stay long, I’m afraid. I have other calls to make.’ Under no circumstances did Silas drink Wapping water unless it was in the form of tea, and even then he always made sure it was scalding hot and that he could actually see the steam rising from the kettle. Wapping’s water supply came from the Hobart Town Rivulet, and God only knew what sort of disease he might invite should he accept Polly Jordan’s lemonade.
Silas was wise to practise caution. Upstream, where the rivulet ran cleanly down from the mountain, people imbibed its waters with impunity, but here in Wapping, disease had been known to reach epidemic proportions. Deaths from dysentery, cholera and even typhus were not uncommon.
He reached a hand into the inner breast pocket of his frock coat and took out a small cloth purse, which he placed on the table.
‘There we are, Mrs Jordan: on behalf of the society, your monthly widow’s rental allowance at two shillings per week. Eight shillings in all.’
‘Oh Mr Stanford . . .’ Polly’s lisp intensified. ‘It’s so good of you, it truly is. I don’t know how to thank –’
‘There is just one way you can thank the society, Mrs Jordan,’ Silas interrupted, ‘and that is to keep your children in school for as long as is humanly possible.’ Which will mean only until they were twelve, he thought. After that, they’d head off for the hop- and apple-picking seasons, which was the way so many of the poor subsisted. But at least, by then, they would have received the elementary education that would serve them throughout life. ‘I cannot stress enough the importance of learning to read and write. Nor can I stress enough the importance of acquiring basic arithmetical skills. It is imperative we safeguard the future of our children, Mrs Jordan, for they are the future of this colony.’
‘Oh indeed, Mr Stanford, indeed! My Charlie’ll be back at school on Monday, I swear. Why, little Will’s there right now, learning his sums. He’s clever, that boy. I’m dead proud of him, I am.’
With four children and another on the way, Polly Jordan couldn’t wait for every one of them to be twelve years old and out picking fruit and hops. She loved each child with a passion, she always had. She’d loved the two she’d lost as well. But she was tired. It was time someone looked after her for a change. Dear Mother of God, she’d earned the right, hadn’t she?
The interview over, Polly waddled thankfully the several steps to the door, Silas accompanying her.
‘I’m delighted to hear that Will is doing so well,’ he said.
Outside in the lane, as the front door opened, Charlie nudged his mate, and they gathered up their marbles and scuttled out of sight. Best to avoid a lecture, the boy thought.
‘I shall see you again in one month,’ Silas said, putting on his top hat.
‘That you will, Mr Stanford, and without this, eh?’
She flashed her toothless grin and clutched her giant belly, and Silas felt himself flush with embarrassment. But to his credit, he did not look away.
‘I wish you luck with your confinement, Mrs Jordan. May God watch over you and see you safely through your ordeal.’
‘Thank you, Mr Stanford.’ Polly wasn’t sure why, in that instant, she felt a desire to communicate with this stern man. Perhaps she was making a personal plea, fearing that the society would no longer support her once the baby was born, or perhaps she felt genuine sympathy for Silas Stanford because of what she’d learnt from his daughter.
‘It’s hard bringing up youngsters on your own, isn’t it, sir?’
‘Yes, I’m sure it is.’ The question was no doubt rhetorical, but she was looking at him as if they shared a secret, and Silas felt uncomfortable.
‘Just as it’s hard losing your loved one to the sea. You’d know that too, wouldn’t you, sir?’
There was no misunderstanding her now. The starkness of her words and the meaningful look in her eyes clearly stated that they had a common tragedy.
Silas was rendered momentarily speechless. This is my daughter’s doing, he thought. It had to be. How else could Polly Jordan know of their personal family history? He was bewildered. Why would Amy share such an intimacy? It was tantamount to betrayal. Why would she do such a thing?
‘I appreciate the difficulty of your circumstances, Mrs Jordan,’ he said stiffly, ‘and I give you my personal assurance that the society will continue to supply your widow’s allowance until you are able to return to work. In the meantime, I wish you good day.’
He tipped the brim of his hat, and walked off down the stinking lane without looking back.
Polly watched him for a moment or so. A hard man, she thought, a hard man with no heart. How a bastard like that had managed to sire the likes of Amy Stanford was beyond her. She left the front door open to let in a little breeze, and went back inside. Baby Jake was crying.
Ah well, she thought as she sat and lifted the child from its cradle, at least I’ll have another month or so before the society cuts me adrift. She jiggled the infant on her knees and baby Jake stopped crying immediately, reaching out to play with her hair. What the hell; she’d scored well with her widow’s allowance. She was thankful for that, particularly as it was quite possible she wasn’t a widow at all. She put the child on the floor and smiled as he crawled, then stood, then staggered about the room like a tiny drunken sailor.
Polly wasn’t at all sure that her husband had died at sea. In her opinion, Albert Jordan was too canny to cop it in an accident. He’d more than likely run off because she’d got pregnant again. ‘You keep popping them out like this, Poll, how am I expected to feed them?’ he’d say. Mostly in a good-natured fashion, she had to admit – he was fond of his children. But she’d sensed the prospect of this next one might have pushed him too far, particularly so soon after the last. Well, it was hardly her fault the babies kept coming, was it? He had to keep poking her, didn’t he? The bastard never stopped. What did he expect? God, but she missed him. She missed him and hated him at the same time.
Polly Jordan’s overwhelming grief at the news of her husband’s death had been quickly replaced by anger. Whether or not he’d died, as his crew mates aboard the whaler had reported, was immaterial. A careless death, or a callous abandonment, either way she’d been left pregnant with the prospect of bringing up five children on her own. The only mitigating factor in Albert Jordan’s favour, should he have abandoned her, was that he had rigged his own death in order for her to receive assistance. For that, Polly was grateful.
She stood and, hefting baby Jake onto one hip, grabbed the bag of fresh fruit that had arrived yesterday. She’d pop next door and share it with Meg Henderson who had six youngsters and a drunken husband who beat her. There’s always someone worse off than yourself, Polly thought.
Silas walked down Campbell Street towards the harbour. He would look at the ships, he decided, while the wind off the water cleared his head of the foul rivulet odour.
As he passed the City of London Arms, two men staggered drunkenly out onto the street and a brawl ensued, others joining them, mugs of rum and ale in hand, to urge them on. It is early afternoon, Silas thought vaguely. Why were men drinking in the early afternoon? But then why men chose to lose their senses in drink at all remained a mystery to Silas. He ignored them and walked on.
Upon reaching the harbour, he looked across to Hunter Street and Old Wharf. Beyond the impressive stone facades of warehouses and businesses lay the further network of Wapping’s lanes and alleys and rows that were bordered to the east by the rivulet’s outlet. Housing principally fishermen and labourers, here too life was hard and uncompromising, and here too were the pubs and brothels where drunkenness and lasciviousness were a daily ri
tual.
Although he believed in the aims of the temperance movement and the banning of spiritous liquor, Silas, unlike many others, did not stand in judgement of men and their drunkenness. Nor, surprisingly, did he stand in judgement of women who sold their bodies. Most of the poor wretches had come from a convict past: they had endured the unspeakable. What right had any man to judge those whose spirits had been broken? The lunatic asylums, of which there were a number in Van Diemen’s Land, were overflowing with pitiable creatures who had been pushed to the brink of madness and beyond. Silas did indeed pray for their souls, but it was his aim to offer help of a more practical nature, help that would lead the colony into a future where such torment had no place.
He slowed his walk to a dawdle and, ignoring the raucous cries of the fish hawkers, looked out at the mighty ships resting on the water. He was so deep in thought, though, that the beauty of the ships was lost on him. His mind turned to the previous day’s meeting of the Legislative Council when delegates had arrived from Launceston for final discussions on the drafting of the new constitution. It had been a meeting of great significance, and the principle reason he had returned from his property near Pontville. Since Westminster Parliament had passed the Australian Constitutions Act of 1850, granting the right of legislative power to all six colonies, Van Diemen’s Land had grown closer with each successive year to becoming a self-governing colony of the British Empire. It will not be long now, Silas thought as he stared blankly at the harbour. These were momentous times. Momentous times indeed . . .
He lifted his gaze out across the river and was distracted by a particularly fine-looking ship in the distance. Under full sail and with the wind behind her, the clipper was making her way up the Derwent in spectacular fashion. He halted to admire the vessel and, as he did so, he realised that his mind hadn’t really been on the meeting of the Legislative Council at all. It hadn’t even been on the new constitution and the prospect of self-government. He’d been trying to distract himself, he realised. He’d been trying to distract himself from the moment he’d left Polly Jordan’s house.
‘It’s hard bringing up youngsters on your own, isn’t it, sir?’ He couldn’t get her words out of his mind. ‘Just as it’s hard losing your loved one to the sea. You’d know that too, wouldn’t you, sir?’ Yes, he thought, oh yes, indeed I would. Why, he wondered, had Amy chosen to confide in Polly Jordan of all people? He had no idea what could have possessed his daughter to do such a thing, but whatever the reason, it had brought back the past.
About the Author
Judy Nunn’s career has been long, illustrious and multifaceted. After combining her internationally successful acting career with scriptwriting for television and radio, Judy decided in the 80s to turn her hand to prose. The result was two adventure novels for children, Eye In The Storm and Eye In The City, which remain extremely popular, not only in Australia but in Europe. Embarking on adult fiction in the early 90s, Judy’s three novels, The Glitter Game, Centre Stage and Araluen, set respectively in the worlds of television, theatre and film, became instant bestsellers. Her subsequent bestsellers, Kal, Beneath The Southern Cross, Territory, Pacific, Heritage, Floodtide, Maralinga and Tiger Men confirm her position as one of Australia’s leading popular novelists.
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Version 2.0
The House on Hill Street
ePub ISBN 9781742758428
Copyright © Judy Nunn, 2012
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
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First published by Random House Australia in 2012
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available from the National Library of Australia
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